Hope Takes Flight (6 page)

He pulled back on the stick and the plane roared upward. Suddenly Gavin found himself upside down, and then gliding back to a sitting position. He gave a wild cry of pure ecstasy as Beachey made the loop. “Do it again! Do it again!” he cried.

The pilot was enjoying himself, too, almost as much as his young friend. He loved to stunt, and he put the little plane through a series of rigorous exercises. Turns, banks, stalls, loops. Finally he said regretfully, “Well, we'd better go back. I know you hate to get back down to earth.”

Gavin stared at him, startled. “How did you know that?”

“Because you're like me. I always hate to put my feet on the ground again.” A strange look crossed the aviator's face. “I wish there was some way a man could stay up here always and never have to go back to earth again.”

He landed the plane skillfully, and the two got out. At one side of the field, the family was waiting to greet Gavin. They rushed toward him, their questions tumbling over one another.

“What was it like?” “Were you scared?” “Weren't you afraid you'd fall out?” The questions rained on him from right and left.

Finally, Gavin got a chance to answer. “It was fine!” he said, his face flushed, his eyes sparkling. “It was better than anything ever was.” He stood there with a rapt expression on his face, then turned to Amos. His jaw tightened, and he said firmly, “Amos, I'm gonna be a flyer!”

Amos stared into the face of his younger brother and nodded. “I expect you will, Gavin. I expect you will.”

The air show put on by Beachey was the climax of the trip to Fort Smith, and it was Will who said, “I guess we better get on back. I've had about enough excitement for one day.”

Amos glanced at Owen and a mischievous light sparkled in his eyes. “Oh, come on now, Pa. I'd planned on taking us all to one of those moving pictures that's so popular now.”

Christie glanced at Amos and saw the fun in his expression, and how he was watching Owen, and caught on at once. “Why, sure,” she said, “we've got to see one of those! C'mon, Pa. I've heard so much about them. Besides, we never get to do anything out on that old farm!”

The brothers all joined in, and finally Will Stuart gave in. “Well, might as well go whole hog, I reckon. What kind of a picture is it down there at that place?”

“I saw it in the paper,” Amos said. “Tilly's Punctured Romance.” He thought for a minute. “Fellow named Charlie Chaplin's in it. And a woman named Marie Dressler. I've heard it's pretty hot stuff!” He cocked an eyebrow and stared at Owen. “But I guess we'll be all right as long as the parson's along.”

Owen flushed. He knew he was being teased, and said lamely, “Well, I guess the parson won't be there this time. Doesn't seem right for a minister to be seen in a place like that.”

“Oh, come on, don't be an old woman, Owen!” Pete Stuart said. He turned his light blue eyes on his older brother. “Tell you what. I'll sit behind you, and if anything comes on that there screen that you hadn't oughta be lookin' at, I'll put my hands over your eyes. Okay?”

Owen laughed in spite of himself and glanced over at Allie, who smiled back. “All right. I guess that'll answer. Let's go do it, then.”

They piled into the cars, drove to the Apollo Theater on Main Street in Fort Smith, and saw what was for some of them, their first motion picture. They came out of the theater, shaking their heads.

William Stuart said, “I've been to three county fairs and two snake stompin's…but I ain't never seen nothin' like that!”

Getting into the cars again, they made their way out of town, wound around the highway, and finally turned off on the old dirt road. By ten o'clock, they were pulling up in front of the house.

“C'mon in,” Will said. “We can have a little more fun before we go to bed.”

Amos began to protest, but Peter pulled him inside, saying, “Put them kids of yours to sleep over on a pallet. I want to hear Pa play that fiddle some. Owen, I ain't heard
you
play and sing in a long time, neither. Let's get at it and have us a party.”

Soon every lantern and lamp was lit, and the house echoed with the sounds of the fiddle and the guitar and the voices, singing the old songs. Once, Owen glanced around at his father, wondering what he thought about his wife not being there, but Will seemed completely content. So, Owen shrugged and merely whispered to Allie, “I guess Pa's learned to put up with her ways after all these years.”

Finally at midnight, Amos shook his head, saying, “We've got to get out of here. I won't be worth a dime in the morning. And those kids will be up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

He started getting the kids together and, when they were ready, he thought of something. Reaching into his pocket, he said, “Pa, I got you a present while I was in the drugstore. Thought you might enjoy reading it.” He handed Will a small book.

His father stood there for a moment, then pulled his glasses out of his pocket and put them on the end of his nose. Staring at the book, he read aloud: “
Tarzan of the Apes
.” He looked up at his son and cocked one eyebrow in a familiar expression. “What in tarnation is this, Amos?”

“Book by a fellow named Edgar Rice Burroughs.” Amos grinned. “Look at the picture on the inside. You girls might be interested, too.”

Will opened the book, and the girls all crowded around as he held it at arm's length.

Lenora said in a shocked fashion, “Why, that man don't have nothin' on but a little ol' piece of underwear!” Christie giggled, and Gavin whooped with laughter. Then the other men crowded around and they all stared at the picture.

“It's a popular book in New York,” Amos explained. “All about an English nobleman who gets lost in the jungle as a baby and is raised by the great apes.”

They pored over the book, studying the illustrations of the mighty ape-man in the company of huge gorillas, fighting lions, and sitting astride an elephant.

Will Stuart shook his head. “I don't believe a blamed word of this stuff,” he snorted. “Them apes ain't got sense enough to raise no human baby. And if they could, what'd he be like? He'd talk gorilla talk, wouldn't he?”

“Naw,” Logan denied. “He'd talk just like we do. It'd be born in him.”

Amos and Owen laughed, and the others joined in. Owen asked, “You think if a Chinese took one of our American babies and raised him, when he grew up, he'd speak English, Logan?”

Logan nodded stubbornly. “Yep. It's born in us,” he stated firmly.

Amos laughed loudly and slapped his brother on the shoulder. “Maybe you're right at that.”

The visitors left the house, got into their cars once again, and drove back to the hotel. All the way, they talked about the family and the changes that had taken place since their last visit. When they reached the hotel, they went to bed at once without any further conversation.

Lylah slept like a log and got up and dressed the next morning with her eyes feeling gritty. When she went into the hotel restaurant, she saw that the others were already seated. “Good morning,” she mumbled as cheerfully as she could.

When none of them answered, she looked around with a puzzled look in her eyes. “What's wrong with all of you?” she asked. “Somebody die?”

Amos tossed a newspaper onto the table, turning it so she could see the headlines. “
That's
what's wrong,” he said.

Lylah read the heavy black print:
LUSITANIA SUNK BY GERMAN U-BOAT
. Looking up, she asked quietly, “What does this mean, Amos?”

“The Germans have been sinking English boats with Americans on board, but so far, Wilson's been able to keep us out of war. But the
Lusitania
was an American ship, carrying passengers, not munitions.” Amos's face was set and stern, and he tapped the newspaper with his fist and shook his head. “It's too late now. Wilson will have to declare war on Germany.”

Lylah sank into a chair.

No one was hungry, and they ate very little. The news seemed to have cast a pall over everyone in the dining room. Others were staring at the headlines, and conversation seemed either strained or slightly hysterical.

When breakfast was over, some of the family prepared to leave, and Amos and Lylah were left alone. “I've got to get back to New York right away, Lylah,” he said. “I think Mr. Hearst will probably send me to Europe. I know he'll want me to go interview Teddy Roosevelt.”

Lylah had remained very quiet. Now she said, “Amos, do you have room for me to go back to New York with you? In the car, I mean?”

“Why, sure, Lylah. I didn't know you wanted to go.”

Looking down, Lylah traced the design of the tablecloth with her finger. There was a pained look on her face, and Amos knew her well enough to recognize that something was bothering her. “What is it? What's wrong, Sis?”

She lifted her eyes and said, “I'm going to Europe, Amos.”

“Europe!” Amos blinked his eyes in startled amazement, then shook his head and began talking rapidly. “Why, you can't do that, Lylah! I'm telling you, this thing is going to blow up! You'd be caught over there, right in the middle of a war!” Lylah just sat there, watching him. Finally he asked, “What do you want to go to Europe for?”

She took a deep breath and looked straight at Amos. Lylah was still a beautiful woman, who looked much younger than her years, he thought. Fatigue had dulled her eyes, and her lips thinned as she pressed them together, a sure sign she was troubled.

“Amos, I've
got
to get away from America. I have a chance to go to England with a company that will be doing a repertoire of American plays. I'll be the starring actress—” She hesitated, then said, “It's James Hackett's company.”

“James Hackett!” Amos stared at her and his forehead creased in a frown. “I would've thought you'd had enough of him, Lylah.”

Lylah shook her head, knowing what he was thinking. Hackett was the man she'd run away with ten years earlier. He'd taken her out of Arkansas, and they'd carried on a torrid romance for two years, before he had turned to another woman. He had also led Rose into a bad life before she found the Lord in a New York mission.

“There's nothing but business this time, Amos,” she said quietly. “I'm getting older. If I'm going to make it as an actress, I've got to do it
now.
If I can make a name for myself in England and maybe some other parts of Europe, I can come back in triumph. Then some of the big producers here will listen to me. I've got to do it, Amos. I've got to do it.”

Amos drew a deep breath and said, “You'll do what you say you'll do, Lylah. You always have.”

“Don't hate me, Amos,” she said. “You can't hate me. I won't let you.”

Amos smiled. “No, I'll never hate you, Lylah. We Stuarts have to stick together.” He reached over and clasped her hand warmly. “This country…no, this
world
…is never going to be the same again. But you and I and all the rest of the Stuarts have got to stick together!”

T
he dock at New York Harbor was packed with hustling, bustling people, and as Amos and Lylah stood at the rail looking down, the huge British liner,
Hartford,
uttered three short, raucous blasts.

“Well,” Amos said reluctantly, looking at Lylah, “that means I've got to go.” He threw his arms around her, and she clung to him almost fiercely, then stepped back.

“I'll be all right, Amos,” she said, trying to smile. “Don't worry about me.” They had made the trip back from Arkansas to New York in record time, but now that she was ready to leave America, somehow it didn't seem right. But Lylah was a woman who had determination to the bone, and now with all her skills at acting, found it possible to smile and say, “I'll come back the toast of Europe. You'll have to have an appointment to interview me, Amos!”

A smile pulled at Amos's lips, but he was worried. “You know,” he said finally, “the Germans are torpedoing passenger ships, and this is an English ship at that. I wish you'd wait and go on an American ship at least. You can meet your troupe over there later.”

“No, I'll travel with the others. We'll be all right.” She felt her throat constrict and knew that if he didn't go soon, she wouldn't be able to control the tears that welled up in her. She leaned forward, kissed him, then slapped him on the chest. “Get out of here, you old newshound, you! I'll be back before you know it!”

Amos said quietly, “I pray that God will watch over you, Lylah.” Then he turned and squeezed between the throngs lining the deck of the
Hartford
.

When he had made his way down the gangplank, he turned and looked up to find her watching him. She lifted her hand and waved. He waved back. Somehow, even though she was surrounded by other passengers, and even though she was traveling with a troupe of her fellow actors, his sister looked very lonely, very isolated, almost alien, standing there on the crowded deck of the huge ship. He waited until the ship began to move and then watched Lylah's figure grow smaller as the liner picked up speed and finally disappeared.

Amos threaded his way through the crowd moving toward the parking lot. He drove at once to downtown New York, weaving expertly through traffic composed of horse-drawn cabs and loud automobiles, finally arriving at the offices of the
New York Journal
, the creation of William Randolph Hearst. Amos parked the car, entered the building, and walked rapidly to the office of the editor.

“Hey, Amos! You're late. Better get in there,” said one of his fellow reporters—a tall, gangly man named Stevens. “The old man's having a genuine fit. I think you're his raw meat for the day.”

Amos grinned, waved his hand at Stevens, and entered Hearst's outer office. The receptionist, a short woman with gray hair, stared at him with obvious disapproval. “It's about time. He said for you to come in as soon as you got here.”

As Amos went in, he heard the secretary announcing him on the intercom: “Mr. Stuart is here, Mr. Hearst.”

Amos entered the office of William Randolph Hearst and found the editor crouched over a large table littered with maps. Hearst, who had made journalism in America more like a bullfighting sport than anything else—shedding literary blood right and left, espousing every cause that caught his fancy, and developing yellow journalism to almost a fine art—looked up and frowned. “Come in, Amos. Look at this map.”

Amos walked over to examine the map as Hearst began pointing out the positions of the European countries and informing Amos didactically where the battles would be fought. He had this quality, almost clairvoyant, of being able to predict when news would come, where it would come from, and who would be involved. Because of this, Hearst was always first on the scene. He and the
Journal
had the jump on every other paper in the country as a rule.

“Sit down, Amos,” he said gruffly. “On second thought—” he changed his mind—“
don't
sit down. You've got a job.”

“Yes, sir?” Amos asked curiously.

“Go find Teddy Roosevelt and find out what he's got to say, although we already know.” Hearst grinned sharkishly. “He'd like to raise a new corps of Rough Riders like he did in the Spanish-American war. Remember that?”

“Yes, I remember it very well.” Vivid images of the charge behind Teddy at San Juan Hill flashed through Amos's mind. He'd been there that day, and the fact was a matter of pride to him.

“Then go talk to the president,” Hearst broke into his thoughts.

Amos blinked in surprise. “Well, sir, I think I can see Teddy without any problem. We've been pretty close for years, but I don't know about the president. They say since the
Lusitania
was torpedoed, he's not seeing anyone.”

“That's
your
problem!” Hearst snapped. “That, and hanging onto your job. So, get out there, get those interviews, and get back as quickly as you can.” He dismissed Amos with a wave of his hand and went back to studying his maps.

Amos left the office, so engrossed with the problem Hearst had tossed out to him that he didn't even hear the greetings his fellow workers called out to him as he left.

At least
, he said to himself as he got into his car,
I can see Teddy. That won't be any problem
. He left the inner city, headed for the home of Teddy Roosevelt.

“You may wait in here, sir. Mr. Roosevelt will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you very much.” Amos nodded at the tall servant who had ushered him into the fabulous North Room at Sagamore Hill, the home of Theodore Roosevelt, located at Oyster Bay on Long Island.

He walked around the North Room and thought how much a room could reflect the life of a man. There were elephant tusks, a gift, he knew, from the Emperor of Abyssinia. The carpet, thick and lush, had come from the Shah of Persia. Over to one side was a glass case containing a suit of Japanese armor presented by Admiral Togo. One wall was decorated with the head of a magnificent elk staring down at him. On another was a St. Goudens bronze, “The Puritan.” Somehow it contrasted with the hunting trophies. The presidential flag hung high on the wall over a blue couch.

“Well, well…here you are! Good to see you again, my boy.”

Amos turned as Teddy Roosevelt entered the room, striding purposefully toward him, and put out his hand. “Good to see you, sir. You're looking well.”

“Oh, not bad for an old man.” Roosevelt grinned, exposing huge teeth, easy to caricature by his political enemies.

He
did
look fit. Although blind in one eye from a boxing accident, he still had the glow of good health that had taken him all over the world—from the jungles of Africa hunting big game, across the American prairie, to the Panama Canal, where he had operated one of the huge earth-moving machines. He was—and had been for a long time—the symbol of American energy and dynamic willingness to dare all things. He had even taken on the crooked and corrupt monopolies and smashed them to bits, gaining the title of “The Trust-Buster.”

“Sit down! Sit down! Tell me what you've been doing,” Roosevelt boomed. His voice seemed to echo, filling the room, as if he were speaking in a large arena.

Amos sat down and said at once, “Well, sir, if you'll let me off, I'd much rather hear what
you've
been doing.”

Roosevelt stared at him, a sharp light in his eyes. “You're here to find out what I think about this European war. Isn't that so, Stuart?”

Amos shrugged and smiled slightly. “Sir, I
think
I know how you feel. I've been listening to you for a long time. But, if you don't mind, I'd like to hear it directly.”

“Mind? Of course I don't mind,” Roosevelt said, shaking his head. He looked around the room at the many trophies; at the trophies of a lifetime, really, spent fighting for this country he loved so dearly. “We'll have to fight, Stuart,” he said without hesitation. “No way out now. It's got to be. Everyone seems to know that, pretty much…” he paused, then shrugged his husky shoulders. “That is, everyone except President Wilson and Secretary of State Bryan.”

Amos took out his pencil and made notes rapidly as Roosevelt restated all that had gone on in the past few months. He pointed out that the German decision to sink without warning any Allied ships found in waters around the British Isles was in itself an act of war. “How,” he said, “are those U-boat commanders going to be able to tell the difference between a ship full of munitions and a ship full of passengers?” He got up and began to pace the floor, voicing his opinions loudly and defiantly as he always did.

“Wilson is a good man,” he said finally, “and Bryan's a good man.” He turned to Amos and smiled suddenly, baring his huge teeth again. “Both of them elders in the Presbyterian Church. They have a lot in common. But this is war,” he said vehemently. “The longer we stay out of it, the longer it will last. The French and the English will fight with all they've got, but Germany has built up a magnificent war machine, and it's time to smash it!” He pounded his fist into his palm. “Smash them once and for all! And make this world a fit place to live again!”

He continued for nearly an hour, Amos taking notes now and then, not really needing to, for he had heard it all before from Teddy Roosevelt. He knew that if Roosevelt, who had lost narrowly to Woodrow Wilson in the last election, were President of the United States, there would be men on the way to France and elsewhere in Europe right now.
Probably,
he thought with a grim smile,
with Teddy leading the way, waving his sword and his pistol as he did when he charged up San Juan Hill
.

When Mr. Roosevelt wound down, he took on an apologetic tone. “I'm sorry to have dumped all this on you, Stuart. But you've always been wise in the ways of politics, and you've always had a good feel for what's going on in America.” He took off his pince-nez and asked in a low voice, “What do you think the president will do?”

Amos sighed. “He won't declare war until he's tried every other way out. That's what I think, Mr. Roosevelt.”

Roosevelt grunted and got to his feet. “You're probably right, my boy. Probably right.”

Later, as Amos left the grounds, he looked back and spotted Teddy Roosevelt playing in the yard with his granddaughter and wondered if anyone would listen to the old lion.

The country watched Woodrow Wilson closely. What would he do about the Germans? Would he go to war with them? Or would he build a moat around this country and declare, “It's America for Americans”?

Along with everyone else, Amos had read the harsh letter the president had sent to Germany. And, like most others, he was not surprised when Germany paid almost no attention to it.

But he could not think of a way to get in to see Woodrow Wilson. Every reporter and every writer in town—in the country, for that matter—would have given their right arm to speak to the president. But Wilson had disappeared…at least, he had refused to see any reporters, and rumor had it, he was not even talking to his fellow politicians.

“He's gone into hiding,” Amos said to Rose one morning as they ate breakfast. Then, seeing the kids outside, their voices resounding on the May air, his tone grew wistful. “I wish I didn't have any more problems than those two.”

Rose came around the table and put her hands on his shoulders. She ran her hand across his hair, then said, “Isn't there any way you can get in to see the president?”

“Can't think of one.”

Rose hesitated, then said, “Well, I thought of something while you were gone yesterday. But it may be just a foolish idea.”

He reached up, took her hands and kissed one soft palm, then turned around to gaze up at her fondly. “I like your ideas, even when they're foolish. What is it?”

“Well, you were always close to Mr. Bryan, the secretary of state,” she began. “Why don't you go see him? He might be able to get you an appointment with the president.”

Amos blinked in surprise. Then he jumped to his feet, threw his arms around Rose and swung her in a wide circle.

“Put me down!” she gasped.

Amos obliged, but not before kissing her soundly on the lips. “I'm going to raise your salary!” Giving her an appreciative look, he added, “Why didn't I think of that?” He stopped and took her in his arms again and looked into her eyes. “You're definitely the smart one in this family.” With one last kiss, he was gone.

She went to the window and watched him jump into the car and roar off.
I married the right man all right. Marriage with anybody else would be so dull
.

Amos had no trouble at all seeing the secretary of state. He had always been good friends with William Jennings Bryan, had supported him on all of his futile tries for the presidency. Besides, Bryan had an open door policy. Almost anyone could simply walk in and often did.